A STORM.

Now bursts the wave that from the clouds impends, And swelled with tempests on the ship descends, White are the decks with foam; the winds aloud Howl o'er the masts, and sing thro' every shroud; Pale, trembling, tired, the sailors freeze with fears, And instant death on every wave appears.

DRYDEN'S VIRGIL.

JOHN STERLING TO HIS SISTER.

WRITTEN A FEW HOURS BEFORE HE DIED.

Could we but hear all Nature's voice,

From glowworm up to sun,

'Twould speak with one concordant sound, Thy will, O God, be done!'

6

But hark, a sadder, mightier prayer

From all men's hearts that live,

Thy will be done in earth and heaven, And thou my sins forgive!'

Come, said Jesus' sacred voice,
Come, and make my paths your choice:
I will guide you to your home;

Weary pilgrim, hither come.

Thou who houseless, sole, forlorn,

Long hast borne the proud world's scorn,
Long hast roamed the barren waste,
Weary pilgrim, hither haste!

Ye who tossed on beds of pain,
Seek for ease, but seek in vain;
Ye whose swoln and sleepless eyes
Watch to see the morning rise;

M

Ye by fiercer anguish torn,
In remorse for guilt who mourn,
Here repose your heavy care;
A wounded spirit who can bear?
Sinner come! for here is found
Balm that flows for every wound;
Peace that ever shall endure,
Blest, eternal, sacred, sure.

PSALM XXXVII.

Commit thou all thy griefs

And ways into His hands,

To His sure truth and tender care,
Who earth and heaven commands.

Put thou thy trust in God,

In duty's path go on;

Fix on His word thy steadfast eye,
So shall thy work be done.

Give to the winds thy fears;

Hope and be undismay'd;

God hears thy sighs and counts thy tears;
God shall lift up thy head.

Through waves and clouds and storms
He gently clears thy way:

Wait thou His time,-thy darkest night
Shall end in brightest day.

LUTHER.

All places that the eye of heaven visits

Are, to a wise man, ports and happy havens. SHAKESPEARE.

Friend after friend departs;

Who hath not lost a friend?
There is no union here of hearts
That finds not human end:
Were this frail world our only rest,
Living or dying none were blest.
Beyond the flight of time

Beyond this vale of death,
There surely is some blessed clime
Where life is not a breath,
Nor life's affections transient fire,
Whose sparks fly upwards to expire.

There is a world above,

Where parting is unknown; A whole eternity of love,

Formed for the good alone;
And faith beholds the dying here
Translated to that happier sphere.

Thus star by star declines,
Till all are passed away,
As morning high and higher shines
To pure and perfect day;

Nor sink those stars in empty night,

They hide themselves in heaven's own light.

MONTGOMERY.

Yes, it was the mountain echo,
Solitary, clear, profound,
Answering to the shouting cuckoo,
Giving to her sound for sound!

Unsolicited reply

To a babbling wanderer sent; Like her ordinary cry,

Like-but oh, how different!

Hears not also mortal life?

Hear not we, unthinking creatures!
Slaves of folly, love, or strife-
Voices of two different natures?

Have not we too—yes, we have—
Answers, and we know not whence ?
Echoes from beyond the grave,
Recognised intelligence!

Such rebounds our inward ear
Catches sometimes from afar-
Listen, ponder, hold them dear;
For of God,-of God they are.

WORDSWORTH.

Child of sin and sorrow,
Fill'd with dismay,
Wait not for to-morrow,
Yield thee to-day!

Heaven bids thee come,

!

While yet there's room
Child of sin and sorrow,
Hear and obey.

Child of sin and sorrow.

Why wilt thou die ?

Come while thou canst borrow

Help from on high :

Grieve not that love,

Which from above,
Child of sin and sorrow,
Would bring thee nigh.

Tell me not in mournful numbers
'Life is but a troubled dream,'
For the soul is dead that slumbers,

And things are not what they seem.

Life is real! Life is earnest !
And the grave is not its goal;
Dust thou art, to dust returnest,'
Was not spoken of the soul.

Not enjoyment, and not sorrow,
Is our destined end or way;
But to act that each to-morrow
Find us farther than to-day.

Art is long, and time is fleeting,

And our hearts, though stout and brave, Still, like muffled drums are beating Funeral marches to the grave.

In the world's broad field of battle,
In the bivouac of life,

Be not like dumb, driven cattle!
Be a hero in the strife!

Trust no Future, howe'er pleasant!
Let the dead Past bury its dead!
Act, act in the living Present!
Heart within, and God o'erhead.